


how to stop worrying & start living

by queendromeda



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Teenage Drama, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 02:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16053758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendromeda/pseuds/queendromeda
Summary: The end of the world starts not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a half-garbled laugh and the warning of the late bell.Jerome tries not to feel too giddy.A collection of high school snapshots.





	how to stop worrying & start living

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Mike through the Batjokes Gotham Exchange with the prompt high school AU! I did something experimental with the non-linear style, and I know it gets pretty prose-y when in Jerome's thoughts, so I hope you like it! If you don't, then I'd be totally willing to write something else, especially since this was five days late, so just let me know.

The end of the world starts not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a half-garbled laugh and the warning of the late bell.

Jerome tries not to feel too giddy.

(he fails).

 . . . . .

He was busy debating the merits of blowing up a can of Axe in the hallway when something caught his eye. Or, someone. Usually, he could give less of a shit about new students. They were all just ants crawling over each other, pretending like they weren't all trapped behind fingerprint-smudged glass in a man-made ant hill. Sometimes someone would be interesting for a day or a week or, if they were lucky, two weeks, but Jerome had a habit of breaking his toys if he wasn't careful.

(addendum: he was never careful. it was part of his _charm_. all slick inelegance wrapped up in a ratty pullover.)

Sometimes, rarely, someone would appear that he didn't get bored of and he'd stick to them like gum lodged in the back of a throat.

Those people never hung around him too long either.

Jonathan —sweet, crack-gaunt Johnny-boy — noticed where he was looking. "He'll eat you alive."

Promises, promises.

"You know him?"

He hummed, eyes lidded with something that Jerome couldn't make out, but made his hackles rise anyways. "Everyone knows him." He picked at his teeth, before declaring, as if it should mean something, "Bruce Wayne. He's probably even more fucked up than you are."

He said that like it was a taunt. A challenge, maybe.

"Think he needs a welcome committee?"

Jonathan smiled. It was horrific. Jerome's seen maggots that looked prettier. "I think that sounds like a great idea."

. . . . .

_[4:43]_ so jsut 2 let you kno

_[4:43]_ ur the fucking worst

_[4:44]_ and i hate you

 

_[6:46]_ You say the sweetest things

. . . . .

Bruce holds his hand. It's more sweaty than it is romantic.

If he licks his lips then he'll taste blood. If he brushes Bruce's knuckles with his thumb then he'll press into fresh bruises. There's something that feels unbearable about that moment. A white-hot bolt of uncertainty trailing up his spine, singeing his hair and burning through him. He knows better than anyone that there's nothing to burn, but still. It's the principle of the thing, the moment, the tenderness.

Except, he decides, it's not really tender, is it?

Bruce tightens his grip on his hand. It could be an apology. He doubts it.

Jerome pushed him on purpose. It's what he does. He prods and pokes and all but drags people kicking and screaming over the edge of a deep, dark cavern filled with monstrous things. He himself lives entrenched in that cavern, floating in filth. Or, maybe the cavern was just empty and clean until he fell in and brought the monsters and the filth. Dirt trailing at his fingertips, blood dripping from his nails.

Once, years ago, Jeremiah went through a poetry phase. He liked to ask questions with no answers or questions with circular answers, and its a wonder, really, that people like him more than they like Jerome, but the point is his brother asked him once, trying to flaunt his intelligence, his poise, his sheer betterness: _"When is a monster not a monster?"_

When he asked, Jerome didn't answer. Instead, he threw a pair of scissors at him.

Now, improbably, he thinks he knows the answer. He licks his lips, blood staining his tongue, and he remembers the impact of the punch, he remembers Bruce angry in a new way, reborn in his fury, and he remembers thinking: _do it. hit me. harder. harder. go on, fall into it. fall into me. fall all the way down._

(he makes sure to forget Bruce's apologies and regret and his gentle, hesitant touch. this is his narrative, after all.)

So, when is a monster not a monster?

It's a trick question.

A monster is always a monster.

. . . . .

There was a gnawing in his stomach. A sort of hunger that only grew and grew until his hands found themselves wrapped around the throat of the problem. And what a pretty throat he had.

Bruce seemed to catch that he wasn't entirely invested in his rant about Steinbeck. He frowned. It was little more than a slight tightening of his mouth, the slant of his brow, the glint in his eyes, but it caused guilt to pool inside of him quicker than any scolding his mother had ever given him.

"Sorry. I have a tendency to ramble. I didn't mean to bore you."

The hollowness in his stomach grew worse. "Don't worry about it, sweetcheeks. You're more effective than Nyquil that's for sure."

Jerome could tell that wasn't the right thing to say judging from the slight recoil. Bruce's eyes seemed wider, now. Hurt. Gleaming, maybe, but that might have been wishful thinking. He probably looked good with tears drying on his face and a sob caught in his throat. He pushed those thoughts away.

. . . . .

_[10:43]_  howdy pardner

_[10:43]_ wanna cum to my place nd study ?

_[10:44]_ i need 2 brush up on my anatomu

_[10:45]_ anatomy

_[10:45]_  ;)

 

_[10:52]_ Who is this?

 

_[10:53]_  ouch

_[10:53]_  way 2 scratch a mans ego brucy

 

_[10:55]_  Jerome?

_[10:56]_ How did you get my number?

 

_[10:56]_  i axed a pussycat

_[10:57]_  if ya catch my drift ;))))

 

_[10:59]_ You talked to Selina, didn't you?

 

_[11:00]_ yessir

_[11:00]_ she hada lot to say about u

_[11:01]_ she wanted me 2 tell you that u owe her fifty bucks for taking care of ivy 4 u?

_[11:02]_ ya knoo....

_[11:02]_ poison ivy itches....

_[11:02]_ so was that her covert way of saying hse scratched ur itch :O

 

_[11:04]_ Please delete my number from your phone

. . . . .

Lila Valeska was a mother in the loosest sense of the word. She was a mother in the regard that at sixteen she managed to get knocked up by her frail and feeble-minded and blind boss — who, of course, also happened to be the father of her then closest friend — and, for whatever reason, decided that an abortion would be too much hassle — probably interfered with her plans to become the world's most obnoxious walking venereal infection.

Maybe some mothers feel an instant connection with their spawn and decided to wipe their hands of their worst habits. Like stumbling home at 4:28 in the morning to fuck some burn out in their bathtub in exchange for mediocre crack. And then vanishing to god knows where without pulling the burn out from the tub, leaving her four-year-olds to deal with that situation. Not that any mother would dream of doing such a thing.

That would be morally repugnant.

Jerome never really gave a shit about things like morals, but Bruce's favorite personality to wear was self-righteous and, he could admit, it felt nice to be cared for.

So, he could say definitively—

Lila Valeska was morally repugnant.

Explained a lot about him.

She was also a " _f_ _ucking evil-hearted bitch too acid-fried to see out of her own ass._ "

Bruce really didn't like his mom.

He could relate.

. . . . .

"So," Jerome asked, feeling something bitter settle on the tip of his tongue, "Are you fucking him?"

Bruce made an angry, strangled noise. He sounded like a dying cat. He sounded hurt. _Good_ , he thought. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you think? _Jon_." His petulance was showing, but he couldn't help himself. Instead of looking over at him, acknowledging the look of frigid disdain that would be painted on his face, he fiddled with the dab rig.

"Oh, _Jesus Christ_." Bruce jerked forward and yanked the blowtorch out of his hands. "You're such an asshole."

Jerome leered. "You don't know the half of it, babe."

He made a noise high in the back of his throat. Indignation maybe. "Cool down, hotshot."

"You're deflecting."

"There's absolutely nothing to deflect."

"Is that right?" He asked, raising an eyebrow, holding his cheek in his hand to look at him with all the condensation he could muster.

Bruce sighed, pushing easily into Jerome's space, leaning over the rig and using the torch to heat the nail. "Jonathan and I knew each other back in middle school. I don't know what the big deal is."

Jerome tried for neutrality. "I'm just curious."

He could feel, rather than see, Bruce's eye roll. "Is that so?" He pressed down onto the mouthpiece of the rig and took a long drag, letting the smoke fall from his lips smoothly. It was unfairly hot. Jerome hated him in that moment.  "We're just friends. We've never been more than friends."

Jerome took the blow torch from him. "And you've never wanted... more?"

"If I didn't know any better I'd think you were jealous."

"You're deflecting again."

"Must be something we have in common," Bruce said, lips twitching. "If it'll make you feel better, then no, I've never wanted to fuck him."

Jerome hummed, heating the nail again and taking a long drag, letting the smoke fill his head until he felt near weightless. "You need to lighten up, Brucie."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. Live a little. Go ninety without a seatbelt on."

Bruce laughed, his shoulder knocking against Jerome's. " _God_ , you're such a fucking nerd."

. . . . .

Bruce kisses him after sucking on a grape flavored Jolly Rancher. It's messy and his saliva is thick with sugar and their teeth clash against each other and Jerome wonders if it's normal that he feels so faint. It's better than smoking. Better than sliding a knife under a furry ribcage. Better than helping Galavan sell meth-laced pot to Freshman. 

Still, he pulls away first. 

Something like guilt twists in his stomach. "I'm not a good person." 

Bruce looks at him, the inner edges of his lips stained purple. This is the moment that ice beneath his feet breaks and he falls into subzero temperatures. Parranahs circle. He considers humming the Jaws theme, but that would be too on the nose, probably. 

"Do you think I care?" 

Stupid. He's a stupid, bright-eyed, rabbit-tailed boy. All naivety and trust and other pointless, useless things. 

"I'm a bad person." He says again, emphasizing his words this time. 

Bruce doesn't smile. His eyes are as dark and as solemn as ever, and Jerome can hear the ice crack. 

He expects a denial that never comes.

"I know," Bruce says. 

(funny, he'll think later, that he never imagined it would be him falling into the water. how short-sighted.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @ivvpepper.


End file.
